


Appreciation

by damientiamat



Category: Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Anal Sex, Angelic Wings, Chapter 1 TW tags:, Chapter 2 Tags:, Enemies to Friends to Lovers, Explicit Sexual Content, Historical, It is my personal belief that you can't tag a fic under 20k as 'slow burn', M/M, Post-Canon, Pre-Canon, Pre-Relationship, Sickfic, Wing Kink, and then Relationship in the last 1k but mostly its about th 6000 years!!, bottom!Crowley - Freeform, chapter 1 is plot; chapter 2 is smut that interrupted the flow of the plot, consider chapter 2 as a sexy appendix or foot note, heavenly violence, however. while this is under 5k. it takes place over 6000 years... so maybe?, if you care about things like that, repeated themes of arson/fire, somewhat graphic descriptions of ambiguous demonic illness, somewhat graphic descriptions of the black plague, the burn is slow for the boys but not for us the audience, top!aziraphale
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-05
Updated: 2019-07-05
Packaged: 2020-06-16 00:53:39
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 2
Words: 6,628
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19633300
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/damientiamat/pseuds/damientiamat
Summary: Aziraphale has never been fond of fire.





	1. The Swell

**Author's Note:**

> Originally posted on LJ for the GOexchange in 2012. I've done some editing, most notably relocating a smut scene that interrupted the narrative flow to a separate, second chapter. Other than that it's minor edits: mostly POV clarifications, tense consistency and other slight word changes. You can find the original here: https://go-exchange.livejournal.com/149611.html

In all the time he's been around, Aziraphale has never had the time to appreciate the existence of some things.

* * *

The year is 4004 BC.

The Morningstar stands tall alongside his brothers. He shines radiantly in Heaven, and he asks, "My Lord, how could you ask me to love these creatures- these things of dust and filth- more than my brothers, more than you?" 

His grace is ripped from him by his brother Michael, and his beauty wrecked as he is cast into a prison of heat and darkness on his Father's orders.

And those who had followed the Morningstar in his beauty are destroyed, rent apart as they are thrown down alongside he who once was the Lord's oldest son. And those who had known, or admired, or even considered their brother Lucifer's words follow, their sobs of horror echoing through the lands of Heaven as their very being is charred, the striated waves of grey becoming the flaky brand of the traitor.

Aziraphale guards the Gates of Eden at the edge of the world, and he watches the tortured fall like comets. He can just barely smell the burned feathers, even from this distance, stinking of keratin and betrayal. It stings his nose, turns his stomach.

And he sees Michael, archangel on high, stumble to the edges of Paradise in search of the privacy of a small tree somehow escaped from the Walls of the Garden. He stands quietly as Michael collapses into weeping for his beloved brother, the host of the archangels torn apart.

This is Heaven, he realizes. This is Paradise. This is what we really have.

And he learns to appreciate ineffability.

* * *

The year is 587 BC.

The First Temple has fallen. Aziraphale stumbles across the rubble and dirt, coated from head to toe in dirt and ash but unharmed, by some miracle. He pushes a large slab that fell across a doorway over with ease, from one debilitated chamber to another. He knows he is searching uselessly; the pure holiness it emanated has vanished, leaving behind an emptiness, but he can’t seem to stop. He pushes through compulsively, room to room to broken room. It takes a good two hours of circling for him to finally trip over himself to a stop in the middle of the Temple, where the pedestal it once rested on sits cracked and shattered in the dirt in front of him.

The Ark has been taken. The only angel active down-side, and he lets the Temple be destroyed and the Ark be stolen, probably wrecked somewhere, never mind what had happened to Jerusalem.

His mind runs through all the possibilities, of punishment, recall, demotion, discharge, rehabilitation--- What do you even do in a situation like that?

Aziraphale sits on the pedestal with a thump. The cracked slabs of stone are uncomfortable, but bearable.

The temple is silent. It continues to be silent for the next three days.

The shift and whisper of fabric is loud enough to make him flinch as he gets to his feet, warily. Nothing happens.

He walks out the broken door frame of the temple. Nothing happens.

By the time he realizes it’s been written into the scripture of Heaven, Aziraphale knows they aren’t paying attention to the Earth. After all, that’s his job.

And he learns to appreciate absence.

* * *

The year is 48 BC.

The city is lit up like daylight, some sort of twisted beauty emerging from the roaring flames. The Library of Alexandria is falling, crumbling into flakey ashes and drifting to the ground like charcoal snow. It looks familiar, in a terrible way, and Aziraphale curls in on himself, pulling his knees up on the distant rooftop as he watches the world center of ideas and scholars and intelligence burn. His wings wrap tightly around himself as a shield against the specks of ash pushed along by the wind.

The soft padding of footsteps behind him alerts him to someone else's presence, and he glances tiredly over his shoulder. The demon's face is worn and miserable, and any thoughts of Crowley causing it disappears from Aziraphale's mind at the tired and resigned look he knows is mirrored on his own face. He sighs, and curls his wings tighter around himself. There is silence for a second, then Crowley speaks quietly.

"I couldn't stop it."

Aziraphale is distant as he speaks. "It was such a beautiful place." He isn’t talking about Alexandria.

Crowley lets out a breath, slowly, and takes a seat beside Aziraphale. His wings droop low, and Aziraphale thinks they are filthy with soot, though it’s hard to tell. He starts to speak. "If I'd had any idea, that this was-- going to happen, I'd-- I'd." He pauses, closing his eyes for a long second. Gathers his thoughts. He takes a deep breath, and continues. "Have found a way to stop it. I hadn't known. I never know, _we_ , _we_ never know. We never see it coming, do we?" And he smiles painfully, like something is cracking his face into a grin with a sledgehammer, like a big cosmic joke that ends with death and bitter irony. Maybe it is.

Aziraphale hides his face in his knees as his wings pull tighter, an ache starting to form in the curve of his bowed back. He can smell the sickly-sweet fumes of burning books and burning people, the keratin permeating the air even this far away, and he suddenly feels quite sick.

And he learns to appreciate knowledge.

* * *

The year is 1019 AD. 

Crowley swallows.

Things don't appear to be going to plan.

"Look, man, I've been thinking-- if you could put down the sword, there's a good chap- or not, okay, holding it up to my throat works too. Must you?"

Aziraphale considers. "I think so. You are a demon, after all, and you are the one who caused this entire mess, yes? Unless I have the wrong person. Which I don’t."

Crowley begins to nod, then thinks better of it. His wings are tense above his head. "Well, yes, I am, but that's beside the point. But see, can't we have a reasonable discussion without any of this business with swords and killing each other and general violence-- careful with that blade, now! All this discorporation is really getting on Management's nerves, at least for me, and I have to imagine your side hasn't taken kindly to the body count you've racked up, either."

Aziraphale frowns. "Well. I do suppose you've got a point there. But how am I to know that you won't stab me as soon as I let you go? You do have an awful lot of cursed knives on you."

Crowley scowls. "Well, I suppose you can't know, can you?"

"You could get rid of all the damned knives. That would make me much more comfortable, I think."

Crowley huffs, less because he needs to breathe and more because dramatics add so much to a scene. "Ditch my only form of protection against the angel holding a blessed sword to my jugular? That thing's making me itch terribly, you know."

"Oh, is it?" Aziraphale quickly removes the sword, stepping back a bit. "I'm sorry."

Crowley rubs at his neck, itching a red puffy line there the sword had been held. "I think I'm allergic to the stuff, you know. Swells up like humans with a bee-sting, see?" He tilts his head up and points at the line. "Does it look too bad?"

Aziraphale leans in to examine it, dropping the hastily-blessed sword behind him. It flickers slightly with holy fire, warping the metal. "No, I think it should fade in a week or two. I'm dreadfully sorry about that."

"This is what I'm trying to say! See, you're sorry for giving me an allergic reaction? Technically you're supposed to be smiting me, or thwarting my wiles, or whatever term they've decided to use currently--"

The sword continues flickering. It catches on fire with a slight flare, burning gently in the dirt.

"--It's called 'countering temptation'!--"

"--But all that happens is we get killed! And then we fetch a new body, and we get sent back up here--"

"-- _down_ here--"

"--back to Earth, is the point, and then we kill each other again! And when I tempt, you thwart, and when you bless, I curse, and all we seem to do is undo each other's work! So we might as well be sensible about it," Crowley finishes, huffing slightly for effect.

Aziraphale bites his lip. "How can you be sensible about something like- well, like this?"

"Like what?"

"I don't know, whatever this is! I mean. I don't think there's really a term for it, is there?"

"For discorporating each other on a regular basis while still maintaining a respectable relationship simply because we're better acquainted with each other than we are anyone else?" Crowley pauses, thinking. " No, I don't think so."

Aziraphale points at Crowley triumphantly. "Precisely! How is one supposed to be sensible about such a situation?"

Crowley blinks, quite a bit faster than most humans would be able to. "Well, you use common sense."

Aziraphale deflates. "Oh. That would work, I suppose. What are you suggesting, exactly?"

Crowley shrugs, the robe draped over his shoulders shifting gently. "Oh, nothing fancy or overdramatic-- just an arrangement of sorts, I guess. We stop killing each other, for one. It's a bigger stain on the ledger when you've made Vessel Management give you fifteen new vessels over the past century than it is simply stating 'the enemy used his trickery and got away', you know.

"It's really just a matter of arranging things. So that we don't really win, but neither of us lose, either. And then I can send in reports to Downstairs and you can sing lullabies to Upstairs, or whatever you do, and both of us will be fighting very hard against the smart and cunning enemy, as it were, while we have civil conversation over alcohol."

A beat of silence passes as Aziraphale ponders. And another.

And a third.

Crowley shifts his weight from one foot to the other, crossing his arms impatiently.

He glances away, and something catches his eye. He pauses. Begins to speak. Pauses again.

"Uh. Aziraphale? Your sword. It's, ah, melted."

Aziraphale starts, looking up. Crowley points to behind him, a small distance away.

Aziraphale turns around.

A large pool of silvery iron is flaming steadily, sending up holy fumes.

He sighs. "Oh, dear. I keep forgetting that average metal simply isn't meant to withstand holy fire, you kn-hrrck!" Aziraphale is choked off by a small knife pointed right under his chin, practically oozing damnation, as Crowley wraps another arm around his waist and pulls him in tight. Aziraphale’s wings have snapped out in shock at some point during the whole proceedings, and are now sandwiched between his back and Crowley’s front. Crowley snickers as Aziraphale attempts to glance over his shoulder without moving his head. It isn't very successful, but that doesn't matter because Crowley leans over to make up the difference, twisting his torso to stare at Aziraphale from the side.

"See," says Crowley, after a moment's pause, "this is me showing my... cooperation. I could very easily discorporate you right here, and it would be very painful and bloody and not particularly fun for either of us, you know.

"But I'm not."

And suddenly Crowley is several feet behind Aziraphale. Aziraphale turns around just in time to see Crowley whistling nonchalantly as he tosses the knife over his shoulder. It lands point-down, buried in the dirt.

He reaches back and unhooks a thin blade from his leather shin braces, also cursed. He tosses that over his shoulder too. It lands a few inches away from the knife, also point-down. A damned dagger with a serrated edge from his belt. Between the knife and the blade, point-down. A collection of cursed silver needles in a leather case with a string, originally strung around his neck. Looped around the dagger's handle. A sort of triangular blade that could be best compared to a cinquedea, produced from somewhere in his robes. He tosses it into the air, watches it twirl and shine before snatching it out of the sky and slamming it into the ground, wings flaring high into the air behind him. The dirt cracks as the weapon is buried deeper into the ground than was originally intended. Only the pommel is still visible, the rest of the grip stuck deep in the earth.

Nothing like a bit of dramatics.

He straightens up and brushes off his robe. A rather devilish grin sneaks onto his face as he extends a hand towards the shaken Aziraphale.

"So. Do we have a deal?"

And Aziraphale learns to appreciate cooperation.

* * *

The year is 1245 AD. 

The sun rests warm in the sky on the work-in-progress Notre-Dame Cathedral, late afternoon meandering on lazily.

An angel and a demon sit on the banister, dangling their legs over the edge of the roof as their wings are spread lazily, absorbing the sunshine. They are wearing clothing that technically hasn’t been invented yet, but they are drunk and the humans can’t see them and what does it matter? Crowley has one ankle rested on the opposite knee and an arm slung over Aziraphale's shoulders, and they are each holding in their spare hands a red wine glass that seems quite intent on filling itself with a rather lovely Bordeaux. Crowley tilts his head towards Aziraphale, spreading the hand on his shoulder wide to make a point.

"Ssso then," he slurs, giggling slightly, "then she comes up to me, right, she comes up to me, and -oh, this is rich- she tellsss me--" he has to pause for a moment to regain his composure, "tells me I been touched by the Lord! And I'm, I'm jus’sittin' there, practically cryin’ of laughter in the middle of the convent, but I hadda keep a straight face!" He gestures widely with his wings, spreading them out and letting the sunlight play off the charcoal tips as he laughs.

"But I just couldn't! Ssso, I figure, you know, 'might as well go out with a laugh', right? Ssso I -" he lags forward for a second as he chuckles, "I lean over and told the Virgin Mary, 'I think you're the one who really got _touched_ by him, you know what I'm sssayin'?'" At this point he's sagging onto Aziraphale from laughter, and upon hearing the ending, Aziraphale just collapses onto him, giggling uncontrollably. It takes a few minutes for Aziraphale to muster up the strength to speak.

"You didn't!"

Crowley just shakes his head, still shaking slightly with small chuckles. "I did! And then, then she stands up and slapsss me, and the whole sssisterhood decided that was’n invitation to sssstart a full-on bar fight in the middle of the convent! Now there's a ssstory they ommis- omni- took out o'the Bible, am I right? That book'sss more wrong than right these days, innit?"

Aziraphale stiffens, sobering slightly. He stays silent. Crowley nudges him, sloshing wine. "Innit, angel?"

Aziraphale's face is unreadable. "Blasphemy, Crowley."

Crowley's expression freezes. "Right. Yeah."

Aziraphale shakes his head. "Just pour me some more wine.”

And he learns to appreciate alcohol.

* * *

The year is 1349.

So maybe Aziraphale hasn't seen Crowley in a few decades, and maybe he’s feeling a bit nervous about it. He had the tendency to show up out of the blue every five or ten years, citing some government to corrupt or village to tempt. He’d never been very good at the small-scale.

It’s just, well, it’s hard to keep the Arrangement working quite properly without some manner of communication, and as the fortieth Crowley-free year creeps in, Aziraphale really has passed nervous and is well into worried. Slightly worried, that is, not completely worried, because Crowley is not someone to worry about, and it’s just with the Arrangement and whatnot to maintain, Aziraphale’s feeling slightly, ah, stood up. Except it wasn’t a date, and it wasn’t like they arranged meetings or anything, and that was a bad example.

The point is. Crowley is missing, and it’s gotten to the point where Aziraphale isn’t quite sure what he’s supposed to put into his reports because he _hasn’t_ been fighting the agent of evil, due to the fact that the agent of evil wasn’t there to fight. So he begins searching.

Aziraphale doesn’t like going into the cities. It’s worst there. The streets are disgusting, dead bodies piled in alleys and on the side of the road. The people with the unfavorable job of carrying out the dead in their wheelbarrows haven’t been around this part of Florence as much, but it wouldn’t have made a difference even if they had. All around, overpowering the stench of bodies and disease, Aziraphale can sense the sharp ache of lost faith. He shivers and pulls his black mask tighter. It’s easier to heal people under the guise of a plague doctor than it is a holy man. Times have changed.

He does what he can for the half-dead girl, curled up against a rotting house, and for the poor man who had been left for dead in an alley by his family, but when Pestilence strikes this strong, there isn’t much one angel can do. 

It’s not until Naples that Aziraphale senses something that’s not human. He can tell by the pure waves of pain floating out, far more than any human would be able to stand. The Lord was merciful that way.

He finds Crowley in an abandoned brothel, and the smell alone is enough to make Aziraphale swallow in an attempt to keep his stomach contents where they belong. The scattered trail of feathers he had collected leading from the entrance of the brothel to the right room doesn’t help. The demon is lying in a grimy corner, curled up on his side. His wings are out. They’ve been twisted painfully, bleeding and bare where handfuls of feathers have been torn out. He’s coated with grease and oil and dirt and the puddle of vomit he’s lying in. The thread-bare shirt and trousers he is wearing do little to disguise the fact that his skin is pulled tight across his body, taut and gray from illness. His golden eyes are glazed over with pain, just barely conscious. He looks like a dead puppet, gaunt and grotesque.

Aziraphale makes a technically impossible hand gesture and the filth disappears. He places the feathers in a pouch on his belt and steps forward, carefully avoiding the wings. The pain emanating out from Crowley’s body is enough to make Aziraphale wince, and he tries not to notice just how heated Crowley is as he gathers him up and carries him gently. He heads up to the roof and, making sure they won’t be noticed with a snap of fingers, spreads his wings and flies out towards the small country house by Florence he knows Crowley owns.

He keeps to wind currents and updrafts to make the flight more smooth, and steadfastly doesn’t think of how he’s saving the agent of evil he’s supposed to be fighting.

The house is silent as Aziraphale lands gently as he can on the upstairs balcony, a twist of fingers unlocking the doors. He places Crowley on the luxurious bed and, with a touch to the temple, puts him into a painless sleep. He cleans his clothes and gets to work.

Crowley’s wings are bent oddly, and a moment’s examination tells Aziraphale that the left is broken. He summons a splint and sets the wing, biting his lip in sympathy. It’s going to hurt like heaven once Crowley wakes up. Aziraphale wraps the splint into place, holding the wing outspread.

He turns his attention next to the holes in the wings, gingerly wiping away the blood with a wet cloth. He takes the feathers from the pouch where he had placed them and sorts them into piles—left wing and right wing primaries, secondaries, alula. The lesser coverts, the greater coverts. Soft down feathers, bedraggled and dirty. 

He places the feathers in their original positions, above the skin, and wraps them into place. Angel-stock feathers have a power to them, and it’s better not to let them fall into the wrong hands. With a bit of tending, they will take their original places in the wing. 

With illness like this, there isn’t much else Aziraphale can do. He summons a soft blanket and drapes it lightly over Crowley, careful not to disturb the feathers. He places a hand to Crowley’s forehead, pulling his fingers back from the burning temperature. Aziraphale is surprised Crowley hadn’t been discorporated by this.

He places a cloth soaked in cold water across Crowley’s brow, sighing. Crowley must have royally pissed someone off to be in this condition.

A hot bowl of soup and a cup of tea appear beside the bed with a wave, and Aziraphale settles down in a comfortable armchair that is very surprised to be there, and he waits.

Crowley regains some twisted measure of consciousness six days later, and immediately Aziraphale is hit by a wall of pain. He scrambles upright to see Crowley’s eyes crack open, slivers of gold barely visible below the haze of eyelashes. He blinks, slowly.

“…Zsssir’phel?” He slurs the name into two syllables, speaking slowly. “There’s, a, sssnake. ‘N the ceil’n.”

Aziraphale looks up. The ceiling is blank.

“There’s nothing there,” he says softly.

“No, there’s def’nitely a ssnake.”

“Go back to sleep, Crowley.”

“But th’n, th’snake will. Will. Yeh.” Crowley seemed very certain.

Aziraphale lifts the cold cloth and places a hand on Crowley’s forehead. It’s still burning up. “I’ll make sure it doesn’t. Go back to sleep.” He touches a finger to Crowley’s temple, and he drops off again.

It takes another two weeks for Crowley to wake up. Aziraphale doesn’t notice for thirty minutes. 

Eventually, there’s a slight groan.

“Ang’l?”

Aziraphale starts. “Crowley!” A pause. “How do you feel?”

Crowley humms slightly in consideration. “Not that bad, actually.”

Aziraphale nods, standing up. “Of course, of course. Would you like some tea?” He grabs the mug of tea on the bedside table. It’s instantly hot and free of dust.

Crowley nods gratefully, sitting up slightly. His wings shift, and Aziraphale winces at the sharp stab he feels before Crowley locks down on the pain and keeps it from spreading out farther. He twists his neck farther than technically possible, glancing over his shoulder at his bandaged wings. “You fixed my wings?”

Aziraphale straightens up. “They were practically bare, the left one was _broken_ , Crowley! I couldn’t very well leave them like that!” A silence fills the room, and Aziraphale realizes what he just said. He glances at his feet, and the leather of his boots has a very fascinating texture.

“It would, ah, compromise the Arrangement, you know. I do need _something_ to put in my reports, and if I were recalled to Heaven, well, that wouldn’t particularly benefit anyone, now, really.”

There is more silence. He hands Crowley the mug of tea, and sits back down in his chair.

And he learns to appreciate the Arrangement.

* * *

The year is 1671.

They are standing on empty air, high above London. The soot can’t quite conceal the red glow of the flames engulfing the city.

"You know," says Crowley quietly, a few feet behind Aziraphale, "You really like to watch things burn.”

Aziraphale flinches. "It’s never been optional, my dear.” Their voices are just above a whisper.

“I never said it was.”

Aziraphale’s voice cracks painfully. “I don’t enjoy it.”

“Then close your eyes.” Crowley offers, trying to sound nonchalant. It doesn’t work.

“You know I can’t do that.”

Crowley is filled with pity. Aziraphale can sense it, overflowing from his flimsy vessel and rolling out with his breath, his steps, his words. “I know, angel. I know.” A dark tea, oversteeped with sadness until it’s cold, tasting bitter-sour on the tongue and stinging as it goes down.

All Aziraphale can feel is pain, and the itch of salt-water tracks on his face. 

Aziraphale is starting to wonder if God got something backwards with the two of them.

Crowley’s wings unfold silently, huge things that were an osprey’s once, repainted in striated bars of charcoal. He takes a few steps forward, only a few inches behind Aziraphale. Tentatively, he bends his wings forward until they sweep around Aziraphale. When no protest comes, he folds them tight around the angel, fanning out the feathers until he is surrounded by a shield of grays. Aziraphale can see nothing but the graphite shading on the large secondaries, light playing off each feather with slight blues.

Aziraphale smiles, gratefully.

And he learns to appreciate Crowley.

* * *

An apocalypse nearly occurs. It is very dramatic and confusing for everyone involved.

* * *

Aziraphale sits on top of his bookshop and drinks through the night of the Almost-Apocalypse, long after Crowley left to give his plants a celebratory tending to. His sleeves are rolled up above his elbows, and his trousers rumpled.

He looks up to see the sun rising over London, so bright even he can’t look straight into it. The sky is lit up with a medley of oranges and pinks, the sliver of blue growing slowly from the horizon. The air is crisp and cold, and Aziraphale notices for the first time the condensation dripping onto his fingers from the wine glass. He spreads his fingers and the droplets roll down his palm, curling across his veins and sweeping around the soft curve of his forearm.

It’s the first day of a second chance. Aziraphale intends to take it.

* * *

Above a small bookshop in Soho, there is an even smaller flat. It was built to accompany the bookshop as a flat for the owner, but Aziraphale keeps most of the books and alcohol in the back room.

Even so, he keeps it somewhat furnished and clean. The stairs lead up to a kitchen with an alcove of a living room to it, and doors to a bedroom and bathroom. It came in handy when he could offer lodging to some poor fellow on the streets.

He is very glad he has it now as he and Crowley stumble up the stairs, feathers rumpled and eyes wide. He can feel the grin tugging on his face as they blow through the first landing and trip across the kitchen.

He smiles as Crowley pushes him against the door to the bedroom, kissing along the edge of the soft jaw and up, hot tongue sweeping along the shell of his ear. Aziraphale shudders, head tilting back to show pale neck. Crowley kisses his way downwards, tongue dipping into the hollow of his neck in mindless swirls. The path his forked tongue leaves is cold and damp, and Aziraphale yelps involuntarily as Crowley clamps down on a tendon, nibbling slightly. His hands scrabble across the door in surprise at the sensation, searching frantically for the doorknob.

He pushes at Crowley’s shoulders, forcing Crowley to let up. Crowley glances up questioningly, pupils blown to something almost circular, and Aziraphale gets enough of his balance back to swing it open without falling over backwards. His hand wraps around Crowley’s wrist and he tugs him towards the bed, where the soft cotton sheets are made neatly but a paper-thin layer of dust coats the bed from disuse. Crowley twists his hand, and their clothes relocate themselves to the floor accordingly. They tumble onto the bed, hands and legs and wings everywhere, and they’re laughing breathlessly. 

It’s been a long while since Aziraphale had experienced anything like unconsciousness, but when he rolls off of Crowley and collapses on top of the covers, it tugs him under within minutes like an old friend just as he feels the faintest brushes of a wing stretching out over him.

* * *

Consciousness comes slowly and sweetly, and Aziraphale floats vaguely on the edges of it. The world is monochrome and hazy, light just beginning to trickle through the windows, and the warm body wrapped around him like a limpet is surprisingly comfortable and welcome. The wing draped on top of him is heavy, but soft, and its function as a makeshift duvet seems to suit it well.

Aziraphale shifts sleepily, moving a hand to stroke the soft feathers of his cover. They slide like silk beneath his fingertips, and he can’t help but be surprised at how they reflect the light dimly, the faintest edge of a shine across their glossy surface. He vaguely wonders if this is what the Renaissance felt like. His fingers slide under the feather’s surface to feel the soft edges, and his smile is soft and grateful.

He focuses slightly and realizes rain is falling outside. It’s a gentle pitter-patter that sounds like the start of the first rain, before Adam and Eve had been created. The plants had not yet grown up from the ground, and so the Lord sent down the first rain. It was barely a mist, falling warm and all-encompassing, and Aziraphale had stood with his feet on the dark dirt and raised his head and felt it drip down his shoulders and memorized the patterns found in every small rivulet as it rolled down his face.

It’s been a long time since he appreciated something like that.

Aziraphale slips out from under the wing, the cold washing over his bare body like a wave. The staircase to the roof is carpet-lined, soft and plush between his toes.

He steps out from the cover of the stairs onto the roof, briefly remembering to shield himself from humans, and the first damp touch of the concrete makes him flinch. The rain is different from that first rain, a cold early morning mist that would probably give him pneumonia if he let it, but instead he revels in the goosebumps rising across his arms. He stands with his face towards the sky and lets the water roll down his shoulder blades and trickle underneath his feathers, pulling out a shiver that shakes every last feather. Water droplets fall in a quick patter from the movement.

A sound behind him makes him turn, and he realizes at once that he is soaked, ice-cold from the freezing rain. Crowley stands on the top stair, watching from the sheltered doorway. He looks bemused, or perhaps amused, or possibly even both, and the sight of it in the slanted early morning light makes Aziraphale laugh. It sounds like a prism, something sharp and light and simple. Crowley extends a hand out into the rain, and Aziraphale takes it.

They pad down the stairs quietly, mindless of the water dripping onto the carpeting from Aziraphale’s wings, and into the kitchen. In the living room is a small fireplace, and against the wall, with one end next to the fireplace, sits a small sofa with several blankets draped over the back. There are also several bookshelves worth of Aziraphale’s most treasured books that he could never bear to even pretend to put up for sale. Some of the earliest editions writings of the Bible get their own shelf, a mixture of Hebrew and Greek and Aramaic all in a jumbled mess of scrolls and documents. Another shelf is more modern literature, with original author-signed copies of books by Machiavelli and Kurt Vonnegut, among others.

Crowley waves his hand and the fireplace is lit, crackling up with a _whoomph_ from the spontaneous combustion. He gestures towards the sofa, and Aziraphale silently complies. The blanket he wraps himself in is dry and soft, and he curls up on the edge of the sofa close to the fire. He can feel water droplets sliding down the lines of his neck and collarbone, the edge of the blanket quickly darkening from moisture, but he can’t bring himself to care. The heat is strange to feel without the accompanying smell of keratin he was so used to.

Suddenly there is a cup of tea pressing into his chilled hands, and he takes it numbly as Crowley flunks into the seat next to him and stretches out, knees dangling over the far edge as he rests his head against Aziraphale’s legs. The mug almost slips out of Aziraphale’s slick grasp for a second, but he tightens his hold around the handle instinctively and pulls it close to his chest. It warms his fingers to the bone, steaming a delicious chamomile-peppermint scent. He takes a sip without bothering to cool it down and it burns his taste buds slightly, and he glances down at Crowley. A grin shines back at him, and he can’t help but to smile.

He thinks that maybe he could learn to appreciate fire.


	2. The Flood

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _Above a small bookshop in Soho, there is an even smaller flat._ Aziraphale and Crowley put it to good use.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is the smut appendix

_ His hand wraps around Crowley’s wrist and he tugs him towards the bed, where the soft cotton sheets are made neatly but a paper-thin layer of dust coats the bed from disuse. Crowley twists his hand, and their clothes relocate themselves to the floor accordingly. They tumble onto the bed, hands and legs and wings everywhere, and they’re laughing breathlessly.  _

Aziraphale rolls over onto his back and Crowley scrambles on top of him, smiling broadly as he plants open mouthed kisses along his shoulders, his neck, up to his mouth. A tongue slides along Crowley’s bottom lip, licking into his mouth. Crowley tastes faintly of coffee and peppermint, and he kisses like it’s as necessary as oxygen is for most. He trails a free hand across Aziraphale’s torso, resting lightly on his chest for a second before wandering off in every direction. Aziraphale rakes a hand down his back, digging fingers deep into soft down feathers, and is rewarded as Crowley shudders deliciously, pressing backwards into the touch. The sensation shoots straight to Aziraphale’s groin, curling deep in his gut like a heated spring, and he thrusts upwards slightly.

“Ah, fuck, do tha-ah! There, yes, please, please,” Crowley moans, arching his back as Aziraphale threads his fingers under the soft feathers, tugging, and a sharp pull at some particularly sensitive feathers near the base of the wings make Crowley yelp.

Crowley slumps down onto one elbow, arms shaking slightly as he tries to support himself. Aziraphale hooks a leg around Crowley’s thigh and rolls them over with a swift motion, fingers gripping tighter into the feathers to keep steady, and Crowley hisses at the sensation. Aziraphale sweeps his hands across the arches of Crowley’s wings, smoothing down the ruffled feathers, and Crowley ruts his hips into empty air in frustration.

“Just fuck me already, you absolute teassse,” Crowley says, and Aziraphale can think of no greater pleasure. He sits up and shuffles backwards slightly towards the foot of the bed, straddling Crowley’s calves as Crowley flips himself over and into a kneeling position, face buried in a pillow and ass pointed enticingly at Aziraphale. It takes a few attempts for Aziraphale to get his shaking fingers to click properly, coating them in a liberal layer of lube that drips onto the bed sheets. He uses his un-lubed hand and spreads Crowley’s ass apart, hesitating with the other hand for a split second before reaching to touch.

Crowley gasps, jumping slightly at the light touch. The slick fingers touch lightly at the rim, circling slightly before one presses inwards. Crowley bites off a loud moan as he pushes back, spreading his legs wider. He reaches a hand back between his legs, only to have it batted away. Aziraphale leans forward, mouth right next to his ear.

"Hands off, my dear," he murmurs, pushing the finger in up to the knuckle. Crowley squirms, rolling his hips backwards. "Pleasssse, Azira--ah-" He chokes off as Aziraphale pulls the finger back nearly all the way out, the pad of it touching the rim before sliding back inside.

It's only a few more strokes before a second finger joins, slipping in alongside the first. The slight burn is increased as Aziraphale scissors them, and Crowley hisses in discomfort. “Aziraphale, touch me, please!” A crook of the fingers and the pain is eclipsed by pleasure as Aziraphale brushes against his prostate. Crowley arches his back, groaning desperately. "Oh, there, there , hng--!!" He writhes as Aziraphale hits his prostate again, his cock twitching.

Crowley loses track of time when another finger joins, pressing in slickly with the others and Aziraphale spreads all three. He grinds back, hissing as he's fucked slowly on Aziraphale's fingers.

"I'm ready, Azir--ah!-ziraphale, for fuck'ssake!" He bites out, stuttering on a torturously slow twist. It's a painful second when the fingers pull out and he's left feeling empty, before a much blunter object brushes against his entrance.

Aziraphale presses in slowly, sweat trickling down his forehead, and Crowley groans. "I don't have time for your shit," he snaps and pushes his hips back, pressing himself onto Aziraphale in one quick movement that makes them both cry out.

It’s a minute’s pause to catch their breath before either of them can move again, a slow, dragging pull outwards that feels like forever and a bit longer, and Aziraphale presses his hips back in at that same slow pace. It takes a second slow thrust, and then a third, before Aziraphale feels at all confident that he wouldn’t overload from sensation. He slowly finds a pace to his movement, speeding up the motions slightly.

Crowley rolls back against the movement, and they find a rhythm that quickly picks up the pace to something slightly more frantic. Aziraphale shifts his position slightly, and in the readjusted angle his dick brushes up against Crowley’s prostate. The resulting keen is one normally reserved for the filthiest pornography.

Aziraphale runs his hands across Crowley’s back in senseless strokes as he moves, tangling in the wings, and Crowley’s breath hitches. His hands quickly find their way deeper and deeper into the feathers, powering his thrusts by curling his hands around the strong bones just above the base like handles, and Crowley moans brokenly. He shifts his weight onto one shoulder, and this time Aziraphale doesn’t stop him as he reaches between his legs and grips his dick, thumbing the head and the collected precome to smooth the friction as he fucks his fist. He pants roughly, every thrust ending with almost-moans and half-sighs of pleasure.

The combination of sensations keep Crowley from lasting long at all, and within a few minutes his movements are becoming choppy and stuttering, collapsing further into the mattress as he comes apart. Aziraphale listens to Crowley’s shattered cry as he shakes, wings jerking and tensing beneath his hands, watches Crowley come in thick spurts that coat his fist and the bed sheets and drip off his stomach.

Aziraphale is only a few thrusts behind Crowley, pushing deep into Crowley once, twice more while Crowley comes before the tightening around his cock and the reckless pace sends Aziraphale toppling over the edge, wings flaring out instinctively and colliding with the far walls. He rides it out, weight resting on his hands that are still gripped tight in Crowley’s wings as he ruts with wild abandon.  
  
When the world realigns itself, Aziraphale finds that he’s slumped forward over Crowley’s body, chests heaving as they try to regain their sweet, needless breath. He pulls out carefully, and a twist of the fingers cleans up the come smeared across their bodies and dripping slightly onto the bed sheets.

_ It’s been a long while since Aziraphale had experienced anything like unconsciousness, but when he rolls off of Crowley and collapses on top of the covers, it tugs him under within minutes like an old friend just as he feels the faintest brushes of a wing stretching out over him. _


End file.
